


Touching Deep

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Crying orgasm, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 20:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know what you’re saying: WHO THE FUCK IS GRUE?  If I remember correctly, Furiosa’s second in command on the War Rig, you know, Mr Woi Carn’t We Storp, is named Grue. At least that’s what I swear Nux yells as he wants him to get out of the way of his shot.  So, yeah, that’s Grue: he’s hideous, and I love him, so he gets porn too. </p><p>Angsty porn because reasons. And if this has never happened to you, find a better sex partner because it is like wow.</p><p>Also, relevant soundtrack, courtesy of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnpILIIo9ek"> Smiths </a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Touching Deep

"Lancers need more practice," Grue said, conversationally, stepping around behind Furiosa.  She reeked, smelling of burning guzzoline and blood, but she was too tired to move right now, too tired to do anything other than slump on the chair while Grue, her second, bustled around her.  

"They'll get it."  

"Didn't lose too many, though," he said, and she felt the light touch on her shoulder, signing her to tilt her head out of the way for him to undo the rig that held her prosthetic arm in place. She couldn’t do it herself, the hand’s gyros jammed with wire and shrapnel.  

"Lost Pon," she said, her good hand scrubbing over her face.  

"Lost Pon," Grue agreed.  "Went out good, though," he added, after a moment.  "Shiny and witnessed."  

"Still dead."   She wasn't supposed to care; half the War Boys were convinced that dying wasn't a loss at all.  But death was death, to her, hope squelched, buried in pain.  

She'd never seen anyone die a peaceful death, in her whole life.  And that was a thought that weighed on her more, sagging her shoulders.

It was maybe blasphemy to talk like this, and only exhaustion that made her so incautious. Normally Furiosa kept her thoughts and words to herself. Deeds were enough to owe Immortan Joe. She didn't owe him her thoughts.  

A pause, and she couldn't tell if it was because Grue was thinking or if he was concentrating on unhooking the tanglewire that had gotten snarled, hopelessly, in her arm when she'd been flung from the vehicle.  "He was at the end of his half life, anyway," he said, his voice quiet, more quiet than she remembered him ever speaking. "You got to die, at least you get to choose how.  On your knees or on your feet, yeah?"

"Yeah," she assented.  Not because she was too tired to argue, but because there was a stark, brutal truth to it.  Everyone was going to die here, probably violently, probably in pain.  The best you could hope for was to feel that it was meaningful.  

She was startled from her thoughts by a touch, just a brush, over the brand on her neck. "This ever bother you, boss?"

She bit down a snort of laughter at the question, bitter laughter, ash black and ancient.  The War Boys branded their blood slaves, their property.  It was hard not to be bothered by that, the constant reminder of where she’d started. It was a mark of how far she’d come, but it dogged at her, like something yawning at her feet, reminding her just how far she could fall. "Itches when it storms," she said, finally.  And she knew Grue knew there was a chasm of words under that.

He gave a final grunt, tugging the tanglewire free, and then gently taking the metal arm, lifting it as though it were fragile.  Fragile. Ha.  It would outlast Furiosa herself.  It would definitely outlive him.

She felt a finger trace it again, a light touch, like a breeze-borne feather, and then both of his hands were on her, skimming the slope of her shoulders, the straight column of her neck, thumbs flirting with the hair on her nape, and his hands, just for a moment, were warm and comforting, the touch of a human to another, and Furiosa felt her eyelids heavy, her head bowing forward, before he snatched back his hands. "Sorry, boss."  

“For what?” she asked, drowsily.  She shouldn’t have responded, at all, but it had been so long since anyone had touched her, and Grue...was Grue. Loyal, competent, with a watchful eye for his boys. A good man, or at least he might have been if he’d been raised some place else, somewhere else. If he’d been given half a chance.

If any of them had, who knows what they might have been? All she knew was that to be a good man here, in Joe’s army...was not an easy feat.

“Not my place.”

She turned, in her seat, looking back at him over her shoulder, the stump of her arm brushing the chair’s back.   

He shrugged, eyes going anywhere but her face.  “I just.  You know.” He cleared his throat, almost a cough. “Wanted to touch. Er.  Something beautiful.” His hands twisted on each other, like strangling them for the transgression. “Just once.”  

Furiosa stood, the chair scraping in the sudden silence between them. She couldn’t summon up words for what she was thinking, feeling--some sort of pang just under her heart that somehow stung in her eyes. She closed the distance between them, moving as sudden as a thunderhead, her hand hooking around his head, pulling him into a fierce kiss, something that blotted out the sharp burn.  She could feel the startled twitch, and his hands hovering over her ribcage, wanting to, but afraid to touch.  

Furiosa growled, into the kiss, sinking her teeth into his lower hip, and hooked one of her heels behind his, jerking back, tripping him to the ground.  

Grue fell, heavily, dead weight, hands barely breaking his fall, and she took the moments before he could react to step out of her boots, her hand snatching at the fastening of her trousers.  

He was looking up at her, mouth agape, palms flat on the ground behind him, ribs heaving as though he was wrestling to catch his breath as she shucked the trousers over her hips, kicking them aside.

“What?” Furiosa challenged, half bluster, feeling the air--and his gaze--tingling over her bared skin. “Thought you wanted to touch.”  

Another of those choking coughs, and he just had time to tear open the front of his pants, belts and pouches falling aside, before she was on him again, naked from the waist down, straddling his pale hips.  She could feel the heat of his skin against her thighs, his chest rising and falling, breathless with shock and anticipation.

“Gonna have to make that an order?”  An edged smile, as she felt his hips shift under her, trying to make room for his swelling cock.

“No, boss,” he said, hands finding her knees, sliding up her bare thighs, palms spread with a kind of reverence, his eyes jumping over her body, as though trying to memorize every detail, every line and color.  She’d always thought she’d hate being looked at like this, but there was nothing possessive in his gaze, only a kind of awe and admiration that turned her hot and liquidy inside.  Because it wasn't about how she looked, but who she was, to her, to him--she wasn't just a body, but someone he had been to war with, been through things with, someone real...and wanted.  

And she wanted him, too, suddenly, the look between them stripping away more than their clothes had, leaving them both exposed, vulnerable, in ways that were too fragile for the Citadel.

Furiosa rose up, hand reaching between her thighs, squeezing at his cock, her hand demanding. And he responded--obedient and loyal as always, the stroke of her hand drawing a groan from his throat, his eyes fixated on the delta of her thighs.  

She rose up to bring the head up, rubbing it with her thumb, feeling his whole frame quiver under the touch.  And then she took him inside her, grunting at the lick of pain as the blunt head pushed in, spreading her legs wide as she settled down against the shaft, feeling it fill her, as she squeezed her thighs tight against his ribs, feeling a half-wild sort of growl build in her throat, boiling in her belly.

She leaned forward, resting her good elbow on the ground beside his shoulder, her face inches from his, feeling her breasts just brushing the flat pads of muscle on his chest, squeezing against him.  His hands came up, tightening around her back, his body surging upward, slowly, at first, a long, testing stroke, but picking up a desperate speed, hurtling toward release, hips slamming against hers, driving and urgent, his hands raking down her back, catching on the fabric.

Their mouths met in a biting, wrestling kiss, like tigers tumbling together, hard lips and bared teeth, sharing breath, bodies surging together in some contest, to see who--if either--could last longer, and then he broke, as she knew he would, driving up against her hard enough to lift her knees from the ground, his bootheels scraping, tearing his mouth from her kiss in a wild roar that seemed to take all the air from his lungs, his hands hard claws on her hips grinding her down against him.  

He went slack, and she braced herself for the awkwardness that had to ensue, how this changed things between them, how she’d allowed someone close to her, someone in.

Even sharing a feral pleasure is sharing.  

But Grue folded his arms around her, and she felt his ribs vibrate under her body, against her knees, and then he was crying, sobbing, the kind of wail a lost child gives, rending from the heart, and he was ugly and malformed, scars pulling at his mouth, neck a mass of lymph and fluid and it was hideous, but worse than that was that this ugliness was killing him, tearing him from the world where he might have been strong, ruining him and every chance for anything good.  And he knew it, and he knew what he would never have, because of what he was, and that somehow made it worse than if he’d been like so many of the other War Boys, blind to anything but their chance at Valhalla.

She didn’t cry--she couldn’t, her own tears long, long dried up, lost in the forced journey across the desert, but she could be still, cheek against his, letting the maelstrom of it burn itself out of him, letting his tears scald tracks on her cheeks, until it had passed, and then she got up, slowly, easing his flaccid length out of her. Rising silently, she put out the light, before returning to the floor, her hand loosening the band around her breasts until it fell, unspooled, away from her.  Grue lay, one knee up, hand over his face as if to mask the tears, the shame of it, and she settled down beside him, easing her backside against his hip, taking the upflung hand and pulling it over her, pulling him onto his side, his chest against her back. She curled him around her, behind her, pressing his hand to her heart, between her small breasts, feeling her heartbeat against his palm.   

He wanted to touch something beautiful. Just once.  She wasn’t beautiful, but this was, and maybe she needed that too, to touch, just once, something real and honest and intimate, to be reminded of her own vulnerability, a heart not entirely calcified. She gave a soothed sigh, as she felt his lips, salt damp with tears, press gently against the brand on her neck.

 


End file.
